Drums
by ForBlueSkies24
Summary: Edward Masen is an enigma. Bella Swan is infatuated with him. Everyday she secretly watches him in the music room after school, but one day, she uncovers a disturbing secret about the mysterious Edward Masen. One-Shot, AH.


**A/N: Okay, so this is actually a short story I wrote for my English class, and I just changed the names to make it fit Twilight. We were supposed to be modeling another story, so that's why it's very metaphorical, has a lot of figurative language, the "D is for...," etc. I hope you enjoy it! **

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything unfortunately. It's all Stephenie Meyer's. **

D is for drummer, daze, and doodle. The highlight of every week day is seeing him drumming away after that last school bell has rang in the afternoon, giving all of us freedom until eight o'clock the next morning. Students hurriedly walk by, colognes and perfumes flying around me, invading my nose like I just walked into Bath and Body Works.

He's not one of the ones that walk past me, though. Everyday, his feet move in a fast pace towards his sanctuary- the music room. I remember how my cheeks blushed red the first time I saw him as if I had just fallen down in front of the student body and cold chocolate milk splashed to the ground beside me. I was in a daze as I took in his appearance. It felt like a hypnotist has just worked her magic on me. With him being new to the school, students flocked to him. He was a rare animal being put on display. It didn't take long to find out his name. With that piece of information, the doodling of _Edward _surrounded by little hearts began to appear on all of my notebooks. After I realized his name was written around on my belongings, the pink eraser at the end of my pencil became my best friend.

R is for realize, rough, and rewind. Since I watched Edward like he had all the answers to my questions, it didn't take long to realize he was the son of our high school football coach. There were whispers about him in the hall. Like a small fan blowing air, you heard them- subtle but still there.

"Did you hear about what happened at practice yesterday?" one student would ask, so happy and willing to spread a juicy story. Gossip to high school students is like bingo for the elderly.

The other students, having already heard the story, would answer back, "Who hasn't heard? Coach Masen is insane."

They'd say he's too rough. His calloused hands would push into the players so hard, that they would lose their firm footing and stumble backwards. Their strong jaws quickly dropped the first time it happened. I swear the muscles in his forearms even flexed when he was as still as a statue. Coach Masen was terrifying. The whistle blew too many times during practice, spit flying out with every noise it produced. Meanwhile, his humble, quiet son was in the music room with the drums, rewinding from his day with a glorious smile on his face.

U is for understand, undeniable, and unveil. I wasn't quite sure if I was the only one who knew Edward played the drums after school while waiting for his dad to finish at practice. I didn't understand why he kept it a secret, hiding it like his stash of candy as a child. It was a tragedy for those who never watched Edward play. His whole body would radiate happiness, eyes closed, a wide, blinding smile plastered on his flawless face. The ends of his silky, bronze hair would start to dampen with sweat and stick to his forehead. His legs would bounce up and down in rhythm with the beat. His fingers gripped the drumsticks tight, holding onto the euphoria flowing through him. Every time he played, it was undeniably the most beautiful scene I had ever witnessed.

For most students, school is prison. The classrooms are cells. School food is prison food- maybe worse. Teachers yelling, "Get to class!" are the prison guards shouting orders to the inmates. To others, however, school is their idea of a utopia. They feel safe. I learned this while watching Edward play one afternoon, his arms and drumsticks still blurring with the speed of the beat. The room temperature was apparently similar to a sauna. He pulled the sleeves of his navy blue shirt up, unveiling numerous, horrifying bruises on his arms, making them look like the color of a rainbow. My breathing hitched.

M is for mystery, mouse, and malicious. The sight of his arms was haunting. It was like I was at a cemetery on Halloween night. The horror was creeping its way into every nook and cranny of my body. Some of the bruises were newer, darker, standing out, screaming, "Notice me! Notice me!" Others were faded a dull green or yellow but still very much there. It was a mystery as to why anyone would hit him again and again and again. Punch, punch, punch. He was sweet like a lollipop and adoringly shy. He was a mouse, fragile and quiet. I knew why he was always playing the drums; it was his only chance to release everything he has been forced to hold in, his only chance to for a few minutes of happiness.

Down the hall, I heard a door slam shut and the stomping of heavy feet. Clomp, clomp, clomp. I hurriedly raced around the corner, hiding myself from view. Edward's drumming ceased at the sound of the music room door swinging open, hitting the concrete wall with an echoing thud. Cautiously, I peered around the corner, feeling like a spy in a James Bond movie. Coach Masen stood in the doorway of the music room. I could see the anger in his dark eyes from where I was standing. It radiated off him in waves. I half-expected steam to begin coming from his ears and nose. His fists were clinched, arms straining. My body began to slightly tremble subconsciously.

Edward's father stormed into the room, maliciously yelling at his son, calling him every name in the book. "Let's go!" he growled like a wild animal, dragging a terrified Edward out of the room. His father's fingers were curled, digging into his son's bruises. I imagined the pain worsening with every step. Smack! I imagined Edward whimpering after his father shoved him into the wall. Bang! I imagined the door to the school closing, sealing away any chance of a painless night for Edward.

S is for shock, suffer, and steal. I hadn't moved from my spot in the hall. I was so still, someone could have painted a portrait of me. Shock kept my feet rooted to the ground. The scene of Edward and his father was on repeat in my mind- the yelling, Edward's agony, the terrible image of his bruises. It was surreal. The rest of the night was foggy. Every object in my house whispered the harsh words Edward's father spat at his son. I hated knowing he suffered at home every night. Hit after hit as if he were a boxer in a ring, a punching bag and not a real, living, breathing person.

I talked to him for the first time at school the next day, his voice soft and low the whole time. I asked him about a history project we had due. It was the only idea bouncing around in my head.

"I've got most of it done," he said, twining his fingers together nervously.

I smiled and replied, "That's good. I'll have to work on it at home tonight."

"I don't really have time to work on it at home," he whispered.

I gave him a sad smile, not knowing how else to respond. He was fragile, a glass vase full of cracks. I wasn't going to be the one to cause the final crack, breaking him completely.

Edward was at the music room that afternoon of course. I could hear the sounds of the drums all the way down the hall. They ricocheted off the walls like a bouncy ball. As I peered in through the window, watching his whole body move as he played, I finally understood. His father was usually the one with the drumsticks, the power; Edward was the drum, taking hit after hit. When he was in the music room, though, he finally got to hold the drumsticks, hold onto the feeling of being in control. I prayed that his father would never steal that away from him.


End file.
